


Bold In Deed: A Rogue Trevelyan Story

by ErisHarlowe



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisHarlowe/pseuds/ErisHarlowe
Summary: Evelyn Trevelyan, a trained duelist from a noble upbringing, is sent to the Conclave on behalf of her family House Trevelyan. Tensions were already astronomical between mages and templars but a devastating explosion destroys the Chantry's efforts to foster peace between the roaring factions. Sole survivor Evelyn awakens from the tragedy with a painful mark on her left hand glowing as sickly green as the cataclysmic hole in the sky. She's given the choice: help or die. Motivated by fear and a strong will to not die, she throws herself into the foray, adjusting to the mark's power and her growing involvement in the Inquisition as the "Herald of Andraste." Cullen Rutherford, a former Knight-Captain of the Templar Order and now commander of the Inquisition's armed forces, witnesses the devastation wrought by the explosion at the Conclave, and holds his breath. Will the Herald be able to seal the Breach? Maker only knows....
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan





	1. The Temple

**Author's Note:**

> A letter to readers:
> 
> Thank you so much for taking time to read my DAI fanfic! I started playing DAI for the first time last year during the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. I adored Origins for many months and tried DA2 but struggled to get into it, so I skipped ahead to Inquisition - and then I was smitten, with both the world-building and with the characters. Throughout my Dragon Age gameplays, I've discovered my love for playing the rogue (the sneaky-snucking around, picking locks, slicing up baddies with twin blades...ah, good times), and so my Inquisitor is one, of course. (Apologies for not being able to put "rogue" in the tags somewhere. I just couldn't figure out how to do it *sigh*.) 
> 
> I'm kicking things off with Part I: The Conclave. I wanted to establish a clear backstory for my Inquisitor, since the game is so vague on the details. One of the things that bothered me about DAI was that there was no clear motivation for why the player was at the Conclave in the first place. So, this is my attempt to give her one. Also, further on in the story, there were cutscenes that irked me (such as how Cullen throws his lyrium kit in frustration at the door, nearly hitting Inky - not cool, dude!) and so I wanted to tweak them a bit or expand on what was being implied (and not just the *steamy* scene we all know and love!) and build a more comprehensive narrative than the one than was presented. I realize this sounds like I'm making myself out to be better than Bioware's writers - totally not my intent. The story told in the game is well done, especially considering how many different backgrounds you could choose from to be Inky. That's not easy to juggle! That being said, with having to juggle so many narratives, it's hard to give special attention to any one narrative in particular and give it the love and caring it deserves. Hence, fanfiction :)
> 
> A bit about me: I used to post fanfics a loooooong time ago (think: Harry Potter during the height of it, circa the 3rd and 4th films), so that being said, bear with me. I will do my best to keep posting on a regular basis. I won't put notes this long at the beginning of chapters for the most part. I'd rather just let the writing speak for itself. If you have any comments for improvement or feedback on what worked, I would greatly appreciate that. I am taking some time off work for personal reasons and am throwing myself back into my writing, which has sadly been neglected for far too long, so I want feedback. I'm good at taking criticisms. I don't get defensive. I take every note into consideration and take my time with improvements. This is the only fanfic I'm working on so all my attention can be on it. I want to be able to finish it so that's why I'm posting it here to hold myself accountable to those of you who read and provide feedback.
> 
> Anyways, what you are about to read is what I'm considering "the set-up" to the events in Inquisition. Evelyn has a crush on a hunky templar she's known for many years and during the initial days of the Conclave, she realizes he might return those feelings for her. He's "discount Cullen" haha. In fact, Bertrand (the hunky templar) was such a lovely character to write that I couldn't let him go, so he's become the star of my own original fic I'm currently producing. At the same time, she's struggling with insecurities about being at the Conclave and her place in the world. She's not a mage nor a warrior, so her reason for being at the Conclave is not quite as clear in game. My take is that early years of training as a duelist led to some questionable decisions during a mission and she returned to House Trevelyan to lick her wounds and hide her shame for a while. She is trying to redeem herself by honoring her father's wishes that she represent House Trevelyan at the Conclave (and gather useful information for him while she's at it), and is unsure of herself. She is also questioning her beliefs about mages and templars, since being at the Conclave makes it difficult to ignore. So, she's got a lot on her plate already - and Corphy-pants hasn't even shown up yet!
> 
> Part 1 will include everything up to the destruction of the Conclave. Part 2 will begin with her in the jail cell being interrogated, as in the game. I'm going to follow along with the game for the most part. I prefer to not deviate too much from the original story. I'm just going to be expanding on ideas implied (as I said earlier) and elaborating on characters' inner monologues. 
> 
> If you read through this letter, then thank you! You are awesome :) 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~Eris Harlowe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn arrives to the Temple of Sacred Ashes with her traveling party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> I've made some edits to my work recently and wanted to post these changes before starting on new content. I am now including Cullen's POV. Each chapter will switch between F!Trevelyan and Cullen's POV. I am currently working on finishing up Part 1, which includes F!Trevelyan's and Cullen's path to the Conclave as well as the explosion itself. Part 2 will begin with F!Trevelyan in the dungeon cell, as in the game, as I previously mentioned in my "letter", and will follow the events/quests to In Your Heart Shall Burn. Part 3 will be the events/quests at Skyhold, and Part 4 (Maker-willing I get that far) will be the events of Trespasser and beyond. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~Eris

**Part One: The Conclave**

_"Look to My work," said the Voice of Creation._

_"See what My children in arrogance wrought."_

-Andraste, 1:10, The Canticle of Andraste

**Chapter One**

Evelyn clung to the slip of parchment in her right hand. She paused in her walk and stood a moment to catch her breath. The steepness of the hill she climbed caused her legs to burn from the unexpected effort. A cloistered lay sister, dressed in the standard red and white robes of the Chantry, passed by Evelyn on her right, her steps effortless and breath steady. Large, wispy puffs of breath billowed from Evelyn’s own parched lips. They exchanged polite nods towards one another.

Once out of earshot, Evelyn gasped. “Maker, I need more exercise,” she said.

Her hands went to her hips and she dipped her chin to her chest, her lungs demanding more air. She crinkled the parchment in her hand. It soothed her to feel it pinched between her fingers. The motion had become a sort of ritual, started weeks ago upon her departure from Ostwick.

 _Weeks_. Maker, had it really been that long of a journey? She shook her head. Even on a Free Marches Ranger, she still couldn’t believe how long it took. She couldn’t blame the mare, though. Lissie did the job demanded of her well enough, and she complained little. An apple every dozen miles or so didn’t hurt to put a pep in her step, either.

She approached the temple for the first time, butterflies stirring in her gut. She gulped. She unfurled the parchment and gazed at the familiar script. Like words of a spell, she read them and warmth suddenly conjured in her chest. A familiar voice tickled the back of her mind.

_Give ‘em hell, Trevelyan!_

Wesley. His voice recalled evenings spent lingering on the bridge crossing the brook near her family’s homestead, hands grazing cheeks, whispers of forgotten promises exchanged between young lovers. His voice also harkened the reality of the world. After all this time, she was grateful that their brief affair had not dissolved their friendship of many years. If anything, it was a respite from a horrid time in both of their lives - a time she had yet to relinquish from her iron-grip.

She looked to the temple, and nodded to herself. She was supposed to be here. She promised Wesley she would be here. Even if she hadn’t, even if Wesley had not asked her to, she would have come regardless. After all, she was making this pilgrimage not for herself or for Wesley, but for him, her brother Miles.

She licked her lips, chapping once more in the frigid air. Just before she left, she had wrote to Wesley of her father’s intentions to send her to this divine Conclave in the mountains. She admitted her trepidation to him in her lengthy, rambling note. Towards the end, she asked him what she should do. Now, as she stood mere feet away from twin pillars of Andraste, she held his brief response in her trembling hands. His words on the parchment echoed in the stillness around her as she read them aloud:

_“Be brave, dear Evvie. Be bold, as your name commands. -Wes”_

“Be brave. Be bold,” she recited. “Be brave, be bold.” She raised her head. She stared northward, the Temple of Sacred Ashes looming ahead and blocking out the sun. She had many reasons to not want to be here, but there was no going back now. It didn’t matter what she wanted. It was what was needed. She held the parchment to her breast, trying to imbue her heart with the reassurance from his words, reciting her chant again: Be brave. Be bold.

“Maker, help me,” she breathed.

The area outside the Temple of Sacred Ashes hummed with life. Mages, Templars, the Chantry… the determined factions all coalesced, swarming the temple grounds with their heat and rhetoric. Evelyn could pick up snippets of conversation as she walked, her steps enveloped by the energetic din surrounding her. Carts loaded with supplies groaned on either side of her. She felt as though she walked down a narrow-winding path, constricting her movements tighter with every step. She kept her eyes sharp, searching for her travel companions, who had walked ahead of her upon arriving.

Theirs was a comparatively small group of four templars and one cleric. These were people with whom she had shared some familiarity owing to her work with the Chantry in the recent year. There was the senior officer of the group, Knight-Lieutenant Bertrand Cooke, with whom Evelyn spoke the most on the journey, which was not saying much, as most of the journey was either spent riding at a hefty clip, or having a short rest. She had known him the longest, as he was a friend of the Trevelyan House. He had even trained her brother Miles for a time before taking his vows. Of this, they did not speak. She supposed he was as cautious as her when it came to that subject, and this she could understand, if respect. 

The next in command was Knight-Corporal Duhar Blevens, a middle-aged man with a square-shaped head, defined by a golden crown of hair and a thick beard to match. At camp, he took on the role of mother-hen, ensuring each traveler was well-fed and stocked for the next leg of the journey. Evelyn noticed his eyes would wander when in conversation with him, as though he were reading a book behind her head. She found this behavior amusing, if odd. She wondered what sort of thoughts he managed while carrying on conversation. 

The other two were recent recruits. Templar Emmett Levy had taken his vows not more than a month before this journey, while Templar Glenn Sheppard recently passed a year in service. Both had yet to develop matured opinions on the Mage rebellion, though were certainly not quiet about how they felt anyways. 

“I don’t understand why we can’t just force them all back into the circles. Be done with all this nonsense,” said Levy picking at his teeth one night at camp.

“It’s not that easy, rook,” said Sheppard. 

“Why not? We’ve got swords and shields. We can even shut ‘em up for good if we want. It’s not hard.”

“How would you know? Not like you’ve stopped an abomination.”

“Nor have you.”

“I’ve been to a few Harrowings. It’s come to that. I can’t say I’m eager to have to use my abilities again.”

“Why’s that? Mage goes rogue, you put ‘em down. What’s hard about that?”

Bertrand, who had pretended to busy himself with a wood carving project, stopped mid-slice and glared at Levy. “That’s enough, recruit.”

“What? I’m just saying, abominations or otherwise, I’ll not let no one stop me from doing my duty.”

Sheppard shifted in his seat, sensing his commanding officer’s disdain for the new recruit. He clapped the young man on the shoulder. “No one’s questioning your enthusiasm for the job, mate. Just tone it down in front of the others, yeah?” He nodded to Evelyn and Mother Marian.

Evelyn had shrugged. Mother Marian, on the other hand, scowled.

Most of Evelyn’s knowledge of the Mage-Templar war came from the Templars or Chantry. Many of them had made valid points, none she could poke holes in per se. But she had a feeling if Miles was still alive, he would have some thoughts, and this caused her to doubt everything she heard as the only truth. 

With a rueful smile, she imagined Miles in his element, carrying on with one of the clerics, a curious tilt of his head, and tongue aflame with questions prodding for the truth. The surprising thing about this was that at the end of the conversation, the cleric would be shaking his hand and clapping him on the back, thanking him! 

For years she watched him do this and wondered how he managed to engage anyone of any background into a heated conversation, and yet illicit no words of violence, no threats to life and limb, and walk away leaving behind smiles and laughter. Her sister Dara called it “his charm”, but Evelyn suspected it was more than that. She had called him out on it one summer and pushed him to explain. After congratulating her on her perceptiveness with one of his contagious laughs, he explained it was like a game, which he liked to call “Help me understand something, won’t you?” 

Admittedly, her application of his method of questioning lacked a particular brand of convivial warmth, or “charm”. What she could have gathered in her attempts at questioning the Templars and Chantry paled in comparison to what Miles could have achieved. 

The thought of him at times would give her pause. Even now, four years on, she still managed to uncover another crevice in her heart swollen with grief. She shouldn’t be surprised - yet still she was caught off guard, finding herself in camp, choking on an old wound, tears dampening her bedroll in the dead of night, or perhaps lingering behind the others while on horseback, stifling a sudden sob.

As for the Mages, she heard about the horrors in Kirkwall. After all, who hadn’t? Once word spread of the Chantry explosion, it was all anyone could do to stifle their curiosity. But much like a dam during heavy rains, politeness and respect for the dead quickly gave way under the mounting pressure of war to come. By all accounts, the Templars had been within their rights to silence the Mages. They were overrun, so it was told. 

But Evelyn doubted this; well, some of it. This was not the full truth. Something did not seem right. Though she knew few mages personally, the ones she did know were quite devout to the teachings of Andraste, perhaps more so than even some of the Templars. They were not heretical killers nor heartless abominations. They were just people. People who could wield deadly magic, but still people - and people were for the most part just trying to live their lives. 

Regardless, she anticipated learning more at the Conclave; that is, if the Conclave managed to happen at all as intended.

The cleric in their party, a round-faced woman of perhaps thirty or even thirty-five, believed in the mission of the Conclave with such devout ferocity, it was surprising she hadn’t trekked to the Frostbacks barefoot in an impromptu pilgrimage already. Her name, Marian Palmer, was familiar to Evelyn, though she could not place her. On their journey, the haughty Mother had been triggered into delivering stern lectures to the templar recruits on more than one occasion. It seemed trite to Evelyn, but Mother Marian insisted it was to educate the young men and chide them for their “salacious gossip in the presence of the Maker.” 

After one of these tedious lectures, Evelyn decided it was best to maintain a polite distance if she didn’t want to hear a lengthy rendition of the Transfigurations while trying to stomach Blevens’ malodorous cooking. 

One of Mother Marian’s favored discussions to which all present had to endure was her reverence for Divine Justinia’s plan to restore order. Though Evelyn did not know the Divine personally, nor did she invest much of her attention in Chantry politics besides, even she doubted the Divine’s sole purpose of the Conclave was to “restore order”, at least as Mother Marian intended; that is, with mages rounded up back in their circles.

No, the Conclave was meant for something bigger than that. 

As she walked the grounds of the temple, her steps felt leaden. The people around her were as the players in a theatre production, the ensemble cast scurrying around for last-minute curtain calls. What would happen here, when all was said and done? 

With a sigh, she carried onward, her eyes constantly searching for those familiar faces of her party, particularly the Knight-Lieutenant. He had served as their de facto leader on their long and winding journey and would know what to do next. Just before their arrival, he had said something to the group about connecting first with the Knight-Commander. Evelyn didn’t catch the Commander’s name at the time but it seemed irrelevant, as Bertrand was likely to take lead in this anyhow. She briefly wondered if she shouldn’t be the one to take charge. She was the highest social rank of their group, after all.

She chided herself. When did rank ever mean anything to her? 

Besides, Knight-Lieutenant Bertrand was a capable leader. Cool-headed, quietly confident. He spoke with a grave authority, commanding those around him to lean in and understand. As long as she had known him, which had been at least ten years by now, he was meant to lead. She admired that quality about him. It wouldn’t take any amount of prodding to get that out of her. She would admit that readily to any who would hear.

Yet when it came to his other qualities, she found it hard to admit her fondness, even to herself. It was on their long journey to the Conclave that she realized this folly of hers. She had eagerly accepted the opportunity to travel with the Knight Lieutenant when Father announced it over traditional nightcap two months ago. She had only thought of the duty at the time, and of her admiration for Bertrand’s strength in leadership to guide them safely through the Coastlands. 

But as they traversed the craggy landscapes, they had time to hunt small game, forage for berries and elfroot, and oil their leathers, all the while making light conversation. She quickly fell into a companionable silence with Bertrand, not needing to say much, and feeling secure in his presence all the same. As it turned out, this was the beginning of the end for Evelyn. 

For his part, he kept her entertained with the comical and sordid tales from the circles for which he had served: Ostwick, then on to Kirkwall for a brief time, then down to Kinloch before the chaos with the mad mage Uldred during the Fifth Blight, and back up to Ostwick to commence recruitment and training, where she first met him. 

One tale in particular had both of them in stitches. Once, when he was a younger, brasher man, he and several of his friends at Kirkwall discovered a cache of contraband lyrium-infused bottle traps - the kind that rambunctious children craft when bored and itching to blow up anthills, minus the lyrium. The official story goes that the Templars who discovered the cache disposed of said traps “securely”. 

What the official report did not state was how said traps were disposed - and for good reason. The result of said “secure disposal” was that he and his mates had indigo skin for weeks after letting them loose in an empty field. A few bottles of wine may have been consumed but that was neither here nor there, according to A Very-Straight-Faced Bertrand.

Neither the Circle nor the Chantry felt it was in the best interest of either order to admit this last part to the general public, hence the glaring omission. Evidently, having magic-resistant purple-splotched templars marching around Kirkwall was enough embarrassment for one day.

Evelyn’s time spent with Bertrand seemed to last forever and simultaneously ended too soon. She found her eyes lingering on him just a fraction too long to be considered polite. She felt compelled - no, lured into studying his magnetic features the longer she spent by his side: black hair the texture of a raven’s wing, spiked at the widow’s peak fading in a tight crew cut; an oblong face with a sloping jawline and pointed chin covered in a black beard neatly trimmed; a traditionally aquiline nose framed by thick laugh lines; a gregarious smile hidden behind a cool facade. 

When she looked at him, she lingered around his mouth, watching with a bashful curiosity when his thin lips broke apart revealing a row of clean, even teeth. She reveled in his boyish humor, which emerged when Levy and Sheppard were in good spirits instead of bickering with one another. Even Blevens caught himself up in the merriment once in a great while, clinking his bottle of ale with the others and scaring away small game with his brutish laughter.

She already missed it all so much. Since their arrival, it seemed all camaraderie had evaporated into a thin atmosphere, too thin to draw sufficient breath, just like the mountain air here at the Temple. 

She wanted time to herself before diving into the foray that was the Day Before the Conclave, which would largely consist of unpacking crates and lifting heavy objects. Bertrand did not object to her request and even encouraged the others to take their time stretching their legs before attending to their duties. As it was still mid-morning, they would likely be put to work until well after dark. To no one’s surprise, he was the first to depart for the Temple. 

“Ever the soldier,” tsked Mother Marian.

Evelyn had no idea what was meant by this comment, but she understood the sentiment. Bertrand seemed to have an endless supply of resolve to duty. He never quit a job, no matter the time of day nor the situation. It almost worried her how hard he worked without rest, but she thought better of making this observation to him. What would be the point, after all? He would likely just grunt, nod, and keep doing what he was doing. 

As she walked, she noticed the mages, gathering in clumps, huddling together for warmth or just as likely safety. She supposed she did feel a sort of pity for them. They were here for an olive branch, one side reaching to the other, a mighty show of compassion in a time of widespread paranoia and tremendous fear. She couldn’t deny she felt it, too. Fear. What were they capable of? What were their plans? How could this go wrong?

She caught the eye of a mage as she walked. His stony stare startled her, and she looked away, reddening in the cheeks. She doubted he could have read her thoughts just now, but perhaps he didn’t need to, with how she reacted. She sighed. If she was to gather more information, as was one of her assigned tasks, then gawking was certainly not the way to do it. 

If Miles were here…. 

She let the thought linger, then dropped it, replaced with a firm command: _No. You must do this yourself. Be brave. Be bold_. It was no use wishing for the dead to come back to life now. 


	2. Sour Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's first steps on the path to the Inquisition, transitioning from Kirkwall and the templar order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is from Cullen's POV. I readily admit that I have not played through all of DA2, so I've had to do some serious digging on the wiki pages to get a sense of where his head would be at in this transitional time period for him. Some things I guessed at in advance were near enough, so I'm happy about that. In other respects, I need to do more digging and reflecting on how I want to present him, so for the time being, this chapter is unfinished FYI. I have the next part of this chapter started and will keep working on it over the weekend, posting on Sunday in whatever state it's in. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> ~Eris

Cullen spared no lingering glance at his old quarters as he had no fond farewells for the place that was his home for nearly the last decade. He had finished packing his bags the night before, eager to move on from Kirkwall. Well, perhaps eager was not the right word for it. Desperate? He wouldn’t call himself desperate, but that word sounded more accurate to his current situation. The last task that remained was his armaments, and more specifically, what to do about them. 

He didn’t know why it was difficult to make a decision on this task. He knew what must be done, after all. He would leave them here. It seemed a waste of good armor, though. He looked down. The pieces of his armor that he methodically clicked and strapped into place every day of his life since he was eighteen years old lied across his footlocker, buffed to a metallic shine. He lightly traced his fingers along the red-embossed emblem of the chest plate. It felt natural to want to do that again. The process was familiar, an old habit, nothing more; yet it felt somehow right. When one repeated the same process over and over again every day for over a decade, how could it not? 

Well, he still needed armor, he reasoned, and he would still have to don it everyday, as per his new role. That familiar part of the process would not be abandoned, he reassured himself. He would still click and strap pieces onto himself in a methodical manner. He would still buff and shine his armor when it got dull. He would still follow through with the basics, just as he had been taught. Once a Templar, always a ….

He stopped himself. This line of thinking was getting into dangerous territory. He was only a week out from making one of the largest and possibly life-changing decisions of his entire career. He didn’t need to start second-guessing himself again. He had to focus on the path that lied ahead. 

He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath filling not just his lungs but his belly as well, and felt the tension ease a little in his temples. He opened his eyes again. The glint of his armor caught his eye immediately. Morning sunlight was just now cresting through his window. He stepped to the window and looked outside. This, too, was familiar to him. He would observe his brothers sparring in the courtyard below most mornings as he was completing his first round of reports. A smile threatened to crack his stony facade. He could remember pleasant days after all, it seemed. Lately, it felt like all he could think about was how cold and corrupted this place had become. 

He pulled himself away from the window, away from the reverie, and paced. He was due to meet Seeker Penteghast in two day’s time in West Hill. He went to his desk. He had penned an itinerary days earlier and frequently reviewed it. He knew it by heart. The plan was to rest for half a day, resupply, then start the second leg of the trek with a small party southwest to the village of Haven, somewhere in the Frostbacks.

If he stopped to think about it, how his life had changed so drastically in the last month, how the world had changed so drastically, for that matter, then he would falter. So, he didn’t think about it. He just kept moving forward. That’s what the soldier in him knew. Keep moving forward and don’t stop until the mission is complete, then wait for the next orders.

It crossed his mind not for the first time that he was The Commander now. In Kirkwall, he was Knight-Commander, but he felt the title to be a dubious one. He was the man left standing to clean up the mess when the mages rebelled and destroyed the Chantry. He wasn’t sure he truly had earned that title, though he fought every day since to be a better man. Turning against his Knight-Commander at the last minute could be seen as heroic and worthy of a promotion but that was giving him too much credit. He had the choice to act sooner against Meredith, but he didn’t. He knew...well, what he knew didn’t matter now. He would have to just keep living with the choices he made.

It still felt quite surreal to be serving as Commander of the Inquisition. The Seeker had offered him the position without irony and without judgment. She trusted him to do right by the Inquisition, and he could not...would not fail. She spoke of ideals but for once they didn’t seem so far-fetched to him. For the first time in his career, he saw potential to do real good in the world. The Inquisition could start to mend the wounds of old between mages and templars. The Circles could be restored and order brought back to the world - and he would be part of that.

He allowed himself a moment to linger on the strange, novel feelings swirling in his heart and his mind. He suspected he wouldn’t have time to do so later. 

At last, he realized he needed to move. His thoughts were barreling down on him now in the cold quiet of dawn. He slipped his arms through his rucksack, sheathed his longsword, and picked up the itinerary from his desk, folded it neatly, and slipped it in his front breast pocket. Without sparing a glance to his room or his armor, he stepped across the threshold and out into the raw, uncertain world ahead of him. 


	3. Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn assists Knight-Lieutenant Bertrand with some heavy lifting, stealing glances all the while.

The sun that had been high in the sky when she first arrived now hovered between true north and the horizon line. Eventually, she found a familiar face. The Knight-Lieutenant busied himself assisting plain-clothed workers, unpacking an overfilled cart of supplies. He straightened when he saw her and addressed her formally. “My lady.”

Evelyn tipped her head in his direction. “Where are the others?” she asked, glancing around.

“Marian took off for her fellow clerics as expected. Haven’t seen her since. Can’t say I’m disappointed,” he added with a shrug. He lifted a sack of flour and Evelyn followed as he walked it to an empty wheelbarrow. “Levy and Sheppard are inside the Temple, lending a hand. Truth be told,” he added, lowering his voice, “Their gossip was getting right bloody annoying.”

Evelyn’s lip twitched. Bertrand set the flour in the wheelbarrow with controlled ease, then straightened again, pausing to wipe the sweat forming across his brow. “As for Blevens, he’s making himself useful. As always,” he said. He inclined his head to the stocky Knight-Corporal, who was at that moment fluttering around a group of younger-looking templars, looking pained and agitated at his presence.

A smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth. “If he had wings instead of arms, one might mistake him for a cock.”

Bertrand burst with laughter, warming his brooding eyes. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

She chuckled, turning back to face him. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

He leaned back, considering her, hands on his hips. “There’s still plenty unpacking to be done. Help me finish this cart and I’m sure someone will find us with more work.”

She nodded. “Good. I’d prefer manual labor anyways.”

“Not one for politics, are yeh?” he teased.

She responded with a roll of her eyes.

He smiled, then returned to the cart.

Within the hour, they finished unpacking, sending workers off with full wheelbarrows dashing away into the Temple. As fatigued as she was from the last leg of their journey, she was grateful for the activity. Since arriving, she had exchanged saddle sores and cold air cramping her lungs for burning biceps and sweat rolling down her back. Bertrand kept the conversation light as usual and they bantered as old friends do. Slowly, her worry lightened. She started to let go of those intrusive thoughts she carried with her on the journey, the niggling uncertainties about her purpose being at the Conclave as well as the Conclave itself. Though she did not know it, this would be the last time she would feel this light and unbothered for many months to come.

As Bertrand predicted, no sooner had Evelyn removed the last crate of apples from the cart than Mother Marian returned, followed by a posse of red-and-white robes. She stared at the Knight-Lieutenant expectantly. “I have need of strong arms,” she said.

Bertrand sighed, though it sounded more to Evelyn like a growl. She glanced at him, one brow arched, as if to say _You were right_. He responded to her with a look of his own, saying, _Maker, I wish I wasn’t_. He turned to Mother Marian. “Lead the way then.”

She turned on her heel, her nose pointing the way forward. Her posse followed suit, falling in step with her brisk pace.

Evelyn and Bertrand brought up the rear. He leaned over to her and teased, “You still sure you’d rather be working with us grunts instead of politicking, my lady?”

She shot him a sour look. He chuckled.

To her disappointment, as soon as Mother Marian set the Knight-Lieutenant up with the inexplicable task of rearranging bookcases, the haughty cleric slipped her arm around Evelyn’s and guided her towards her posse. “Lady Trevelyan, I thought you could use a break from your back-breaking labor. I’d like to introduce you to some very important people.”

Evelyn swallowed a groan of protest and plastered on a polite smile. The effort strained her cheeks. She glanced over her shoulder, but Bertrand’s back was to her, in the middle of trying to lower a heavy bookcase without dropping it. She imagined him snickering at her all the same.

“My lady,” said the first of many clerics she would meet over the next two and a half hours. She placated Mother Marian, engaging the cleric’s Chantry friends in modest conversation about her travels and her family’s business. Outside the Free Marches, House Trevelyan was known for its long-serving connections with the Chantry and the Templars, earning her an overwhelming display of compliments bordering on hero worship. “My lady, you carry yourself with such devotion. Andraste herself would be pleased.” “My lady, your family continues to inspire even those of us in Ferelden.” “My lady, you walk in the Maker’s light when you show us your generosity.”

She bit her tongue so hard, she just about drew blood.

After being shown her quarters, Evelyn took her time freshening up in relative solitude. As this was a Temple and not, say, an Inn, the accommodations were rustic, to say the least. Cloth sheets were hung so as to separate large studies into sleeping quarters for twelve or even fifteen people. Cots of hay and canvas were still being assembled when Mother Marian guided her inside. Mercifully, Mother Marian had to excuse herself as she was needed elsewhere. Evelyn found it hard to believe anyone needed the cleric’s incessant nit-picking, and simply shrugged.

She made a quick trip to the stables to check on Lissie and grab her belongings, which amounted to a hefty rucksack with straps attached to a bedroll. Once back inside, she set to work, taking inventory, assessing her supplies, locating her hairbrush... among other things. The process was simple and quiet - just what was needed. After five hours of constant activity that followed two hours of hard riding, she could have collapsed on the cot, dead to the world. She sighed wistfully.

Once she had regained some of her composure and felt less grimy than before, she tucked away her rucksack in the corner of the wall, and returned to the grand hall, intent on seeking out Bertrand’s company for some semblance of normalcy.

She found him in a similar-looking room to the one assembled for her makeshift quarters. This one was located on the opposite side of the grand hall. Levy and Sheppard were also present, engaged in a hot debate, much to Bertrand’s annoyance. She took in the room at once, noting how the bookcases were moved from neat, albeit dusty rows to flush against the far stone wall. “I see you’ve made... progress. Whatever the goal was, I haven’t the faintest idea, but it looks like you accomplished something,” she said.

Bertrand scowled. The other templars piped up, eager to complain to Evelyn about the clerics making them move furniture around needlessly.

“You moved two cases _with_ help,” Bertrand snapped. “I did four alone before you nug-for-brains showed up, so don’t even start!”

Evelyn noted his state of undress, seeing that he’d abandoned his armor in favor of his light tunic and breeches. When he barked at the recruits, his arms flexed, tightening against the fabric, nearly soaked through with sweat. She realized a moment too late that she might have been paying his commanding form a little more attention than was polite once again, and turned away hastily, heat kissing her cheeks.

“So, uh, since you two are doing nothing much but complaining, I take that to mean you’re finished with your tasks,” she said. She stole a glance at Bertrand, feeling a twinge of shame in herself for carnal thoughts intruding her mind.

“I’m done,” said Bertrand. “They have their orders.”

Sheppard groaned and Levy sighed. “I heard they just opened the mess tent, though. I’m starving.”

“Not my problem. If you’d quit dawdling and just get your work done like I told you to earlier, you’d be filling your bellies with us instead of doing whatever chore Marian wants.”

“C’mon Levy,” drawled Sheppard. “If we hurry, we might get table scraps.”

Evelyn contained her amusement until they left, turning to Bertrand with a knowing smile. “You love doing that, don’t you?”

He lightened, a warm smile softening his sloping jawline. “Perks of being in command,” he said. He turned his back to her and tugged his shirt off without warning.

She choked on a gasp and whipped around, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “Oh, uh, I could - I should give you your privacy.” She cringed at her flustering.

“As you wish. Doesn’t bother me. Just changing my shirt anyways,” she heard him say in between shuffling of fabric.

She turned halfway, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Fair enough. Have you spoken with any of the other templars here?” She kept her eyes in front of her, though stole occasional glances in his direction.

He had a towel in hand and scrubbed the sweat off around his torso and under his arms. “Saw the Knight-Captain. Didn’t say much, just doing the rounds. Other than that, I’ve been busy.”

“So you have. Mother Marian doesn’t suffer idle fools,” she teased.

He tossed the towel across his shoulder and took one, two, three steps towards her. Sweat dripped from the top of his widow’s peak, his raven hair slick. She craned her neck up at him, getting caught in his ocean blue eyes. She had never noticed their color before, nor how they seemed to soften as they did now. Was he always like this or, she dared to wonder, just with her? A possibility that she had not yet considered struck her in that moment. It’s quality was of something novel and admittedly alluring.

She watched him dab his damp cheek against the towel. His eyes brightened as he spoke. “How was politicking? You were gone a few hours.”

She shrugged, acting every part as casual as she did not feel. “Just as mind-numbingly boring as ever, though the gawking at my name is getting a bit tiresome, I’ll tell you. I may muddy it up before returning to Father. You know, just a casual scandal. It’ll be my souvenir from this whole endeavor.”

He laughed. It sounded full, resonating deep from within his bare chest. “I believe you would. My lady,” he added.

“Don’t patronize,” she scowled.

“I’m not. I swear,” he said, holding up a hand in defense. “If it’s not too bold to say, I think I know my lady quite well after all these years.”

“No, that’s fair,” she said, relenting. Her arms relaxed, though they remained crossed. She glanced down at her boots, as though finding them suddenly fascinating. Her curiosity a few moments ago now burned its way to the surface, forming a question daring to burst from her mouth. _It’s just a fantasy. My mind’s tired. I need rest, that’s all_. She flung every rational thought she could at the stir of seductive emotion in her belly, trying to remain some semblance of propriety, if that was even possible.

“And if it’s not too bold,” he added, taking a step closer, “I’d like to say that my lady has some admirable qualities.”

“Oh?” she said. She nibbled the flesh behind her lower lip a moment, then tightened her expression, fighting to conceal the heat broiling in her cheeks. “Such as?” She cocked her head to the side.

“Well, for one, you’re easier to talk to than most of your station. It’s refreshing.”

She shrugged again, though her casual demeanor wavered when he stood mere inches from her. He smelled of sweat, which was oddly appealing. “I just have little patience for mindless chatter. Besides,” she added quickly, “You’re educated. You make it easy to talk to you.”

He smiled broadly. “That’s kind of you to say. Most find me a bore.”

“Most are self-absorbed idiots,” she quipped.

He chuckled. “That Trevelyan wit,” he said. “Maker, but how it undoes me.” His voice carried just above a whisper.

Something in his demeanor had changed since they began their journey all those weeks ago. Slowly, imperceptible to Evelyn’s senses, he had remained just out of her perception, biding his time until just now, alone, and unarmed. That was why she only noticed her growing interest a few days ago. Had he been interested in her this whole time? His deliberate facade of stoicism showed its cracks, just enough for Evelyn to see. His breaths were sharp and urgent with each inhale. His body was closer to her than it had ever been. He was showing her himself.

Impulse pressed against her chest. She had to know if what she was feeling was real or not. If he rejected her, so be it, but she needed to know if it was worth risking her heart all over again. She had been burned before, and she’d prefer to not go through that again. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time to be having this conversation, but was it ever the right time for these things? _Be bold in deed_ was her family’s motto. As far as she was concerned, that was permission.

“Bertrand,” she said. He suddenly looked in her eyes. She paused, at the edge of uncertainty. She took a deep breath, “I…” then lept. “Do you fancy me?” She met his eyes, searching his face for any hint of rejection or ridicule, as she half-expected.

Instead, his mirthful smile had softened and worry lines returned. “And if I did?” he whispered.

“Oh,” she breathed. Her blush colored from her cheeks and pooled at the dip in her neck.

She opened her mouth to respond, but a pair of voices shattered the air, the force of the sudden interruption repelling them both from one another. She stiffened and turned to the voices, while he jumped back, knocking his knee into a foot locker, which caused him to grunt and hiss out a curse. Glancing over her shoulder at the sound, she struggled to hide her smile. “You alright?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said in a clipped tone. He tossed his towel on the foot locker and bent to retrieve a fresh shirt.

Two clerics entered the room and behind them more appeared. It seemed they were of a mind to inspect their new accommodations, to Evelyn’s - and Bertrand’s - displeasure.

She took a step forward out of the room, but then stopped. _What are you doing, Evvie?_ Her inner voice croaked. She swallowed. She turned on her heel. Weeks of riding together in companionable silence and the occasional joking banter and it only now occurred to her that it might have all been him flirting with her. _Damn him_ , she thought with a mischievous grin, and strode up to him.

He poked his head out of his shirt and started, surprised to see her standing in front of him. The clerics watched them with mild curiosity but continued their droll conversation, wandering over to a set of cots.

Without a word, she rose up on her toes and placed a feather-light kiss on his lips. Before he had a chance to respond, or even a moment to realize what was even happening, she grinned up at him then turned, striding out of the quarters with a confident sway of her hips.

He remained as still as a golem a few moments longer, lips still parted, watching her until she turned a corner. A foolish grin lingered where her kiss had been just a second ago. The sound of throat-clearing caused him to snap his head to the left. The look he gave the clerics silenced them. “Not one word,” he warned. The clerics both nodded their heads vigorously. He hoisted his rucksack over his shoulder, then followed in Evelyn’s direction. _‘Maker, those Trevelyans will be the death of me,’_ he thought with a chuckle.


	4. A New Mantle

The day and a half ride from Kirkwall across the Waking Sea to West Hill was surprisingly (and mercifully) uneventful. Cullen rode alone on a Free Marches Ranger named Gordie, who was light on his hooves and didn’t rattle him around as much as the Ferelden Forders did. It was one of the few differences he appreciated about Kirkwall when compared to his homeland. How strange to think he was going to be stepping foot on home soil very soon. How many years had he been gone? His sister Mia could tell him the amount of time to the exact day, he could be sure. He didn’t know why she kept track of those things for him. He didn’t need her to constantly be reminding him that he was far from home. 

He shook the thoughts away. With a click of his tongue and tug on the reins, he guided Gordie away from the main road. The stallion huffed but kept plodding on, snippy yet willing to obey. He gave Gordie a few hearty pats on his mane. “I know, old man. I know. We’re nearly there. Food and rest awaits us both. Perhaps you’ll even see a fine mare while we’re at it,” he said playfully.

Gordie’s step picked up as though in response and he whinnied lightly. 

Cullen chuckled. “I thought you’d like that.” 

He guided the stallion across a wide, shallow stream while his thoughts on the Inquisition began to race. As if in response to the rider’s distraction, Gordie veered into a thicket, sniffing around. Cullen grumbled something and tightened his grip on the reins. The horse whined and reluctantly returned to the softly-worn path.

When plotting out his path days earlier, he consulted a scout by the name of Orwin, who sketched out this short-cut for him. Although the path was quite overgrown and the infrastructure all but forgotten, it was nonetheless quiet and easy enough to trek. It was supposedly free of bandits, too, though he armored himself in hide nonetheless and kept his sword on him at all times. He briefly wondered why this road had been abandoned by travelers. This led to thoughts about how he would improve things, starting with clearing off the wild thickets spilling out on every side. He would see to it that the road itself was flattened and cleared of rubble and loose debris, have the retaining walls reinforced, have the bridges repaired….

Soon, he fell into a peaceful meditation, observing the road before him and continually making notes. Perhaps a rest station every few miles wouldn’t be such a terrible idea, but would the local Bannorn agree to it, was the thing. The smaller ones could be so...nit-picky about their lands. His horse veered off the path, sharpening his focus back to reality. He clicked his tongue, easing Gordie back. 

Cullen’s journey to West Hill continued in a pattern like this. He would redirect Gordie, who would pick up a reasonable pace for some time, allowing him to disappear into productive thoughts, until Gordie got bored and veered off again.

By the time West Hill came into view, he had started running out of ideas for the road reconstruction project he had assigned himself. Both he and Gordie’s spirits raised, as evident by Gordie’s pace quickening into an eager trot. 

Once he cleared the open gates, he tugged the reins once more, slowing Gordie down to a stop. After calling to a local boy for directions to Mothersby Inn, he continued further down the main thoroughfare and turned right down a short, narrow road, at the end of which sat a plump two-story cottage, smoke spirling from the chimney. The cottage overlooked a little valley, nothing grand by any means, but it was pleasantly green and rams and sheep peppered the landscape. Serene. That was the word for it.

As he neared, an imposing, dark-haired woman with scars on her face approached him, one hand resting on the pommel of her longsword. “You made it, Commander,” she said. “How was your ride?”

“Surprisingly boring, Seeker,” he said. He noted her use of his title already. Part of him wondered if it was too soon for such formalities, given the infancy of the Inquisition, but he let it go. He swung one leg over Gordie’s back and eased himself to the ground, just as Cassandra approached. 

“That’s good. No trouble, I take it?”

“No. We took a short-cut. Not a bad ride altogether. It’s a wonder why it’s fallen into such disrepair.”

A smirk slit sideways up Cassandra’s face for a moment, then she appeared more solemn. “I’ve heard stories from some of the people about these parts. Spirits and such. Supposedly, a consequence of the blight,” she said. 

“Hmph,” was his thoughtful reply.

Her stern voice returned. “Rylen and our scouts are waiting inside. You can stable your horse round back.”

He nodded, leading Gordie. 

As night began to fall, Cullen’s face was buried in at least three different reports and one map. His second-in-command Knight-Captain Rylen Hurst, who had been with him in Kirkwall, sat opposite him and was on the task of routing possible supply lines to Haven. Scouts Flossie Vaughn and Theven Virfaren were given leave to rest and prepare for the party’s departure in four hours. Time ticked by as they sat, reviewing reports ahead of the Conclave, strategizing, planning, arguing. 

He was hungry for information, as were they all, now that the Divine’s left and right hands had started putting their plans into action. He didn’t realize his ravenous appetite for information however had caused him to forget his own actual hunger. An inconsiderate growling from his stomach alerted him. He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore it.

Cassandra, however, did not. She heard it - she must have. He felt her sharp eyes on him, one brow arched. “Commander,” she started to say.

He heard it. The concern in her voice, also the slight amusement. He cut her off instead. “These supply lines will only get us through the Conclave, if we’re lucky. I still think it’s-”

“Commander,” she said, cutting him off. “Take a break. That goes for you, too, Rylen. We need to be fresh for the ride.” 

Dismissed, Rylen nodded and grabbed his work, shuffling papers, and then slowly departed.

Cullen, however, lingered, his eyes concentrating on the reports in front of him, his mind elsewhere.

Cassandra had stood, meandered over to the roaring fireplace, and stretched her neck. She wandered back and stood before him. “Commander, I gave an order,” she said, a gentle tone behind it. 

His brow tightened in a frown. “Understood,” he said, not looking.

He felt her heavy footsteps tromp up to him. “Now,” she said.

He glanced at her, then did a double-take. Her arms were crossed and she glared down at him.

He chuckled. “Alright.” 

She kept her attention on him until he had at last gathered his reports in hand and made for his room. He paused then, and turned with his shoulder to her. “Oh, uh, Seeker?”

She stopped in her tracks and turned. “Yes?”

“You mentioned in your letter to me that the Divine agreed with your evaluation of my...fitness for role as Commander.”

She shifted her weight to her other leg, regarding him. “Indeed. I’d like to think I know you well enough now and how you work. Clearly, you are dedicated to our cause.”

He took the compliment with a pursed smile. “For that recommendation, I am honored. The Inquisition is the way forward. I...thank you. That is all I wished to say,” he said.

Her look softened and she gave him one of her brutal grins. “Don’t thank me yet, Commander. You have a lot of work ahead of you.”

He grinned broadly. “As do we all,” he said and turned.

After checking on Gordie, who snorted gleefully at his approach (likely because he saw the carrots in Cullen’s hand), he found himself wandering into town square. West Hill was by no means large but it did boast a few vendors, including a tailor. He had been of a mind to put in an order for his trek up to the Frostbacks but hadn’t had the time. He had enough to keep him warm on the chilly nights he slept outside from Kirkwall to West Hill, but he doubted this would be enough.

He wandered into a tailoring shop, his mind yet again elsewhere while he poked around the various fabrics. The shopkeep eventually found him as he lingered over the highever weave. 

“I see you enjoy the highever,” said the shopkeep. She wore a knowing smile.

He glanced at her. “I am partial to red, I suppose,” he said.

“Our tailors can fit you for any number of items you have in mind. Gambesons, gorgets, mantles.”

As he listened, his eyes kept going back to the highever weave, the rich crimson color and textured pattern a feast for his senses. He could have something made and sent to him, he supposed, but he doubted their couriers would go so far. Still, they would likely be setting up a supply line near this town. It would take weeks, however, and he would be staving off the winter chill by then. “How long would it take to produce, say, a gorget and...a mantle?”

“After fitting and fabric selection, it takes our tailors anywhere from 3 to 7 days per design, depending on the complexity and customizations involved. There are at least three orders ahead of you last I checked, so your order will likely be started three to four weeks from now.”

Damn. “That long? Hm. I’m riding out this afternoon.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“Haven, it’s in the Frostbacks.”

“Oh you’re going to the Conclave, then?” she asked.

“Indeed I am,” he said, his eyes not leaving the fabric.

“Well, I have a cousin making his way there now. He started this shop with me years ago. When we heard of the Conclave, he thought he would ride up there himself and get some business.”

Cullen looked up, a curious frown in his brow. “How’s he going to manage that? Wouldn’t he need supplies, a room to work, and all of that?”

“He brought one of our tailors with him and a cart of supplies. He says he will make it work. And if it does work, he will have the sovereign I bet him,” she said with a laugh.

He smiled softly. “Did he bring any highever weave with him?”

“Of course! It’s one of our more popular weaves.”

“That is...good to know,” he said. He had some ideas and he felt better about leaving here empty-handed. 

She gave him her cousin’s information and offered to take his measurements in the shop so he wouldn’t have to do it later, to which he agreed. On his way out, he stopped suddenly. He stepped over to where a mannequin displayed a fur-lined mantle. Only the fur was feathers. At first glance, the feathers appeared black but as he rounded the mannequin and afternoon light spilled in through the window, he noticed their sheen flicker with amber and crimson hues. 

He looked at the shopkeep, his mind aflutter with a brazen idea. “Does this mantle come in red?”


	5. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn runs into her mage cousin Emile while on her way to dinner. Bertrand and Emile go way back, it turns out, and the Trevelyans do some catching up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter needs a lot of work and I am really embarrassed how ugly I turned Mother Marian. I won't edit it now, but on a rewrite, this chapter will likely get a lot of treatment.

The aroma of spit-roasted meats and yeasty breads warmed the moods of the attendees, who formed themselves into a haphazard line to the serving stations. Intense debate simmered into casual banter, filling the air with a gentle breeze. 

Once outside, Evelyn ran into her cousin Emile unexpectedly. He brightened and let out a “whoop!” and she made an unlady-like run towards him. Laughing as giddily as a school-boy, he scooped her up and swung her around twice before dropping her on the ground. Others around them glanced at them, some exchanging whispers, most shrugging and getting on with their day. She laughed and squeezed him as though deprived of water after being stranded in a desert. “When did you get here?” she asked pulling back.

“Only just yesterday. Brenna and Stephan went ahead. Mother Gretchen put them to work immediately - the fools.” He grinned mischievously. “What about you? I heard from Mother you were with some templars from Ostwick.”

“Four of them, yes. And a cleric. Mother Marian Palmer.”

He frowned. “Why do I know that name?”

“I know, right? I’ve been puzzling that one out, too.”

He shrugged. “Ah well. No matter. We’re here, there’s food, I’m ready to stuff my face. Smells amazing!” he said, rubbing his hands together. He stopped in his tracks, his face lighting up as he recognized someone behind her. “Hey, there he is! Big man himself!” 

Evelyn turned and then felt her blush return. Bertrand looked her square in the eye and nodded once in polite greeting, then turned to Emile and took the shorter man’s forearm in a firm, enthusiastic shake. “Well met, my lord,” he said. “My lady,” he added with a tender drawl.

“Bert’s a dear friend,” he said, turning to Evelyn. “Have you met?”

She blinked at him. “Of course we have! Bertrand trained Miles. Don’t you remember?”

Recognition lit up Emile’s face. “Ahhh. Right. I remember. Forgive me. It’s been quite some time. And Circle life is so restrictive, especially these days. I feel I go months completely out of touch with the rest of the world.” he said. He turned to Bertrand. “Well, then. Have you got some time? Join us for sup. We need to catch up before the real shitshow begins,” said Emile.

Evelyn shushed him, and nudged him with her elbow, hard. She caught the eye of someone nearby minding their own business, who clearly had better things to do than eavesdrop. The last thing she needed was someone gossiping about how her family was not taking the Conclave seriously.

Bertrand just shook his head. “I see the Circle still hasn’t figured out how to shut you up.”

A chuckle fell from Emile’s wide mouth like syrup poured from a bottle. “And they never will,” he said. “I’m just too clever for them.”

“More’s the pity,” grumbled Bertrand, a twinkle in his eye.

“So, you with us, then?” said Emile.

Bertrand nodded. He spared a glance at Evelyn, who noted how his lip twitched. Involuntary thoughts of kissing him leapt to the front of her mind. Faint whispers goaded her into repeating her action from earlier. She straightened and tightened her arms across her chest, rooting her feet into the ground. 

She cleared her throat. “Did you know, cousin, the Knight-Lieutenant led our small caravan here?”

“Huh? Did he really? Small world,” said Emile. “Well, glad to have you here, mate. Wasn’t sure you were coming at all.”

Bertrand shrugged. “Change of plans last minute. You know how it goes.”

Emile smirked. There was a glint in his eye, one that Evelyn wasn’t sure she was going to like. “How much is the old man paying you?”

Instead of answering the question, Bertrand straightened and put his hands on his hips. “I’ve served your family’s house my whole career.”

“Was it twenty? Bet you couldn’t talk him into thirty,” said Emile, rubbing his chin while guessing.

“It’s an honor and a privilege. Nothing more,” said Bertrand, staring Emile down.

“Twenty-five then. Old man’s cheap but ply him with enough Vint wine and he’ll loosen up those coffers of his.”

“How dare you, cousin!” scolded Evelyn in a mocking tone. “That’s my father you’re disrespecting. Have a care. He’ll only loosen his pursestrings for vintage Nevarran.”

“Maker’s breath,” sighed Bertrand. 

Evelyn flashed a cheeky grin at him. “I apologize, Knight-Lieutenant. It has been a dog’s age since Emile and I have had a proper gossip.”

“Apparently letters are too much to bother with for this lady,” said Emile to Bertrand.

She swiped his arm. He shrunk and giggled at her. 

Sighing, she turned back to Bertrand. “So, a vexatious mage and a templar are friends? How does that happen?” she asked, indicating the two of them.

“I know Bert’s brother, Aldous. We went to the same boarding school growing up, then transferred to the same Circle when our magic showed up around the same time.”

“And as I recall, you got him in a fair share of trouble with the headmaster,” said Bertrand, crossing his arms.

Emile held up his hands in defense. “I did nothing of the sort. Aldi got himself in plenty of trouble on his own.”

“On your goading.”

“Well I can’t help that I’m a charming fellow and people listen to what I say.”

Bertrand snorted. “You Trevelyans are all the same.” 

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” said Evelyn, hands on her hips in mock offense. 

The templar knight shifted in his boots, then shrugged. Emile clapped her on the back, leaning on her shoulder. “It means, dear cousin, that he’s jealous because we’re better than him.”

“Me? Jealous? Of you? That’s rich,” said Bertrand.

“He’s just sore that I beat him at tourney.”

Bertrand rolled his eyes. “Come off it, mate. That was three years ago.”

“Exactly. You need to let it go, my friend,” said Emile.

This elicited a growling sigh from the templar knight. 

“Emile, tone it down,” she said, her eyes stern as she flashed him a warm smile.

He chuckled. “As you wish, cousin,” he said. 

Evelyn turned her attention back to Bertrand, who gave her a placid look. “So, tell me about this tourney.”

For the next hour, as they collected dinner and found a seat at an empty table, Emile regaled Evelyn with the tale of how he bested Knight-Lieutenant Bertrand Cooke in hand-to-hand combat, with Bertrand peppering in comments every so often, usually to challenge Emile’s colorful embellishments. 

Despite Bertrand’s exhaustive attempts to correct and challenge her cousin, he seemed to enjoy the banter. While Evelyn listened with an eager face as her cousin told the story he no doubt had told numerous times, she kept one eye on Bertrand. When they first met, he had just transferred from Tantervale, recently promoted to Knight-Corporal, assigned the task of training new recruits and those not yet initiated. If it had not been for Miles joining when he did, they never would have met.  _ Small world, indeed _ , she thought, echoing Emile’s earlier wistful sentiment.

Emile, like her brother Miles, had inherited the Trevelyan charm. He had a natural talent for spinning tales and enrapturing his audience with well-timed punchlines and animated handwork. Soon, he had captured a crowd of eavesdroppers and onlookers. Gasps, jeers, and laughter filled the air. 

Eventually, Evelyn’s other cousins, Stephan and Brenna arrived. Emile gleefully shooed some of his mage friends to allow space for them at the long table. Evelyn nodded at them both in kind greeting. Internally, she held a gasp. Stephan looked nothing like the lanky boy she had known growing up in Ostwick. His limbs had filled in with hard muscle and his tawny hair, usually spiked in all directions, was now contained in a crisp, flat mohawk. Like so many in the family, Stephan had joined the Templars at a young age. Whatever the training entailed, it produced some of the most intimidating soldiers in all of Thedas. A feeling of sadness touched her heart, realizing so much time had been lost. 

“My, Stephan, how long has it been? You’ve certainly...grown,” she said. She tried not to cringe at her own awkwardness.

“Aye, it’s been an age, hasn’t it? When was the last time? Let’s see, was it one of Great Aunt Lucille’s salons?”

“Must have been,” said Evelyn. “I remember your hair was much longer and you were following around one of the Templar knights with dozens of questions.”

Stephan laughed. “Oh, right. You remember that?”

“Of course,” said Evelyn, her eyes twinkling. Reminiscing always stirred something bittersweet in her.

Brenna, who sat on Emile’s other side, leaned across him and said to Evelyn, “I told him his hair cut like that makes him look like a barbarian! Right?”

Evelyn observed the way Brenna's earnest face somehow conveyed a hint of mischief just beneath the surface. It had always been this way with Brenna, and Evelyn had learned to hold her tongue, lest Brenna catch it and run wild with it at the next salon.

“Oh, come now, Brenna,” said Evelyn. “He’s a Templar. Templars are supposed to look intimidating. It’s part of the effect.” She glanced at Bertrand, sitting on Stephan’s right across from her. He caught her looking and smiled. 

“See? She gets it,” said Stephan, turning to face Brenna. “Why can’t you?”

“To be fair, Stephan,” said Evelyn. “I do take Brenna’s point. The last time I saw you was before you joined. The difference is startling.”

Brenna ‘hmphed’ and leaned back in her seat. Stephan just shook his head, smiling into his pint of ale.

The mage who sat on Evelyn’s right, who Emile introduced as Savannah, peppered Evelyn with questions about magic-wielders in between observations of Evelyn’s station and relationship to the Chantry. At first, it seemed a casual exchange of pleasantries and getting-to-know-yous, but then Evelyn soon realized her beliefs on mage independence would likely be called into question any moment. She bided her time, listening attentively to Savannah’s talk of abominations and blood mages run amok a decade earlier. 

“Ferelden’s circle has made some vast improvements since the last Blight,” said Savannah.

“Indeed,” said Evelyn. “I am curious to know more, if you’re willing to oblige.”

Savannah’s golden eyes lit up and she divulged information about the Circle’s return to strict policies and their subsequent enforcement. She was more passionate than excited. “It’s gotten far harder to pursue my studies, unfortunately.”

“Why is that?” asked Evelyn.

“Well, for one thing, while my strengths are in the Primal school, element casts and the like, I’ve always been drawn to Entropy and studying the nature of death. But that school is harder to pursue, understandably of course. I mean, Ferelden has seen enough death in the last decade and they certainly don’t want more, but before all that happened, I was able to read some treatises on the principles of Entropy and theoretical applications in the realm of resurrection. It’s all quite fascinating, but I’m not allowed to talk about it or even read about it at Kinloch. If I could just get my hands on some manuscripts, I could learn. Why wouldn’t they want that?” she asked to no one in particular, staring down at her near-empty plate.

A tender pause hung over those seated around her who heard her plight. Uneasy glances exchanged between all except for the mage, who appeared suddenly withdrawn, scrunching herself into a tight ball.

Bertrand cleared his throat. “That’s why we’re here,” he said. “To find a balance, yeah?”

Evelyn noted the earnest look on his face, the way he extended compassion for the mage willingly and without hesitation. She wondered as to his convictions, his beliefs, considering what he thought of the mage’s rebellion. He had befriended her cousin Emile, a mage, a rebel in his own way at that. Most templars she knew rarely gave mages the time of day, let alone the benefit of the doubt; yet the way the two of them engaged in brotherly banter like it was nothing caused her to wonder. Besides that, whenever talk came up of the mage rebellion in their caravan, he kept quiet on the subject, observing the others. He did not defend the mages’ actions in Kirkwall nor did he excuse the Templars’ behavior. She made a mental note to pick his mind later. In private. 

As Emile started up a new story, Evelyn found her attention being summoned from across the table. Bertrand was quiet, as usual, eating with a pensive look on his face. When he caught her looking at him, she quickly looked away, feeling heat in her cheeks at being caught, but her instinct compelled her to return her gaze in his direction, and she was rewarded with a tender smile. She blushed into her mug of ale. 

Before long, night had settled on the encampment. Most had been able to stave off the chill when hot food and congenial conversation warmed empty bellies. But now, exhaustion claimed each person in turn, driving people off in pairs and trios to the temple or to the mass of tents organized outside. Evelyn yawned behind her hand.

“Done already, cousin?” teased Emile.

“I don’t know where you get your ridiculous energy from, Emile. But yes, I am quite done. Long day tomorrow and I’d like to get to my quarters before Mother Marian has a chance to suck me into one of her lectures. Although, that might put me to sleep faster,” she said with a shrug.

She heard a chuckle from Bertrand. “Sleep well, my lady,” he said.

“You sure I can’t entice you to join us cousins around the fire pit? It’ll be a Trevelyan reunion!”

She rolled tired eyes over at Emile. “Tempting. But I know the stories. You tell them every chance you get.”

Emile laughed, then leaned back in his seat for a long stretch. “Someone’s got to keep the legend alive,” he said.

She shook her head, chuckling.

“Farewell, sir knight,” she said, giving Bertrand a gentle nod of her head.

“And you, my lady,” he said. 

Upon stepping across the threshold to her quarters, a familiar haughty figure swept up to her face. Evelyn grimaced. “Lady Trevelyan. I beg your pardon but I must address a most concerning rumor I have only just heard. May we speak a moment?” Mother Marian peered down at Evelyn with a foreboding look. 

Evelyn frowned, but then sighed. “Oh? Has Emile made a fool of himself again?”

Mother Marian opened her mouth, closed it, then opened her mouth again. “No. Who’s...Emile? Well, that’s not the point. My lady, you are of noble upbringing and your father entrusted me with watching over you during this trip.”

Evelyn had continued walking to her cot. “Did he now?” she said, her back to the woman.

“Yes, he was worried for your...shall we say, propriety.”

“My propriety? Oh dear, that does sound serious, doesn’t it?” she said. She stripped off her leathers and folded them neatly on top of her rucksack. 

“He also knows your habit of mockery.”

Evelyn stifled a smug grin. She turned a worried glance up at Mother Marian. “My what? I don’t mock others. What ever are you talking about?”

Mother Marian suddenly abandoned her righteous air in favor of a more serious and disarming tone. She stepped into Evelyn’s “space” and loomed above her. “Tsk. You disregard me, perhaps because I am one of the cloth. Perhaps for some other reason. But know that I am not so easily fooled as others have been.”

“Excuse me?” said Evelyn. Her shoulders tightened, feeling suddenly on edge.

“Your father trusts me to watch over you. You are his heir and until now have made a mockery of your station. And don’t try to deny it again,” she said, holding up a hand. “I’ve seen you, you know? The way you talk down to my people. You don’t try to understand us and yet you judge us. Have a care, for many eyes are watching you.”

Evelyn’s frown knotted hard in her brow. “You seem to know a lot about me, Mother Marian. Have we met before this trip?”

Mother Marian straightened. “I don’t suppose you would have remembered. It’s all in the past, my dear. Just know that your father has plans for you, has always had plans for you, in fact, and you will come to heel. They always do. It’s the Maker’s will.” She put on a righteous smile that didn’t reach her eyes and bowed her head. “I will not take up more of your time, so I bid you goodnight. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“That we do,” said Evelyn, her glare icy. She bridled, clenching her teeth and straining her jaw with all her willpower to keep it shut.

After Mother Marian disappeared behind the walls of sheets, Evelyn lingered in her spot, staring in the emptiness.

She tried to recall Marian’s face earlier in her life. The cleric hinted that she had known her before. Growing up, Evelyn had many servants foisted upon her, as was expected of her station. She never liked it, truth be told, and when she came of an age where consequences for disobeying her parents were little more than wrist-slaps (sometimes literally), she bucked the noble trend. The Chantry was involved at the time. Of course they were always involved with House Trevelyan. Back then, her father was quite obvious about his attempts to bring her back in line. Perhaps that was what Mother Marian referred to, then. There were many clerics hovering over her at that time, lecturing her from Transfigurations or having her pray for forgiveness when she refused to wear an itchy gown to one of her Great Aunt Lucille’s many salons. It was possible Mother Marian was among them, scolding her and such, though she would not have been much older than Evelyn, based on how similar in age she appeared to her. 

Or perhaps Mother Marian was a witch in disguise and was really quite old. Wouldn’t that be something? She thought with a snicker. 

She lay down on the cot, hoping her exhaustion would cause her to pass out readily, but this was not to be, as other thoughts, more tantalizing ones, snaked their way back to the front of her mind. She thought of the way Bertrand smiled at her at dinner. She replayed the scene over and over again, reveling in the sensations churning in her gut. 

She was glad she kissed him. She usually waited for the man to step forward. It occurred to her she didn’t know why she did that. She shrugged it off, content to keep day-dreaming of her knight. She enjoyed that he was older than her. There was some comfort there, oddly. He had always been stalwart and generous with his time with her. She assumed it was due to her title that he exhibited such patience. But seeing him tonight in the company of mages, he didn’t seem out of place. He was at ease. She liked him that way. She liked him. Full stop. That was the long and the short of it. 

Mother Marian couldn’t scare her.  _ Maker be damned _ , she thought wickedly as she threw herself to her feet.


End file.
